The Boy Scouts of the Flying Squadron | Page 4

it could be a hobo?" queried Bud with a relieved
vein in his voice.
"Well, tramps nearly always stick close to the railroads, you know," the
other observed with the air of one who had made it a point to take note
of such happenings; "and besides, what hobo would think of wandering
away up here so far from a base of supplies? But we can settle all that
easy enough, Bud."
"By going on and breaking in on him, you mean?" questioned the other
eagerly.
"Yes, though perhaps first of all we'd do well to creep up and take a
look in at that opening. A scout should be sure of his ground before he
takes a leap. It isn't always so easy to go back again."
"All right, Hugh, let's start right in and have a squint at him. Seems to
me I get a whiff of cooking, don't you?"
"Yes, I noticed that, Bud; and also that he's got a fire burning in there.
You can see it flicker, and that wouldn't happen if the light came from a
lantern, or even from a torch."

"Smells good, too. That fellow knows how to cook, whoever he is,"
remarked the other scout, sniffing eagerly at the air as he spoke. Hours
had passed since dinner-time and they had had a hard tramp.
They advanced quickly though cautiously. Their hearts were beating
faster than usual, perhaps because they had been carrying heavy loads.
Then again there was a chance that the moment's excitement had
considerable to do with the quickening of their pulses.
Arriving alongside the wall of the lonely cabin that had been built
many years before by a man who meant to start a farm up in this region,
the boys hastened to glue their eyes to the opening.
What they saw astonished them and at the same time relieved their
feelings. There was but a single occupant of the cabin, and he a boy
about their own age, also dressed in the khaki uniform of a scout. He
was busily engaged in cooking some supper, and apparently did not
suspect the presence of any one near by.
"Why, it's Ralph Kenyon!" gasped Bud. "Whatever can he be doing all
by himself up here?"
Hugh could give a guess. He knew that in times past the young chap in
question had made it a practice to trap the little wild animals that might
still be found in the woods and swamps of that region, for the sake of
the money he could get for their fine furry pelts. This was before he
joined the scouts, which was soon after valuable ore had been
discovered on the Kenyon farm and a strip of land sold to the railroad,
these transactions placing the family on a secure financial foundation.
Evidently as the cold weather came on, Ralph had been tempted to
wander over to his old stamping-grounds, not to set traps as of yore or
shoot any of the timid woods' animals for the sake of their warm coats,
but just to revive old recollections.
He had evidently fetched his double-barrel shotgun along with him,
since it stood in a corner; and he was evidently cooking a brace of fat
quail which he must have managed to knock down on his trip up here.

From the way he cocked his head just then it seemed as though Ralph
must have thought he had heard some strange sound. Perhaps Bud had
spoken louder than he had meant to do. But then there was no need of
further holding back. Ralph was a member of the same troop as
themselves, and while perhaps Bud would have preferred not
increasing the number of witnesses to his own triumph or rank failure,
he saw that it could not be helped. And Bud was one of those who can
make the best of a bad bargain. Besides, Ralph was a good fellow, and
generally well liked by his companions.
Instead of calling out and telling the boy inside the shack that a couple
of weary wayfarers had arrived and meant to join him, Hugh saw fit to
give the recognized signal of the Wolves: "How-oo-oo!" twice
repeated.
Then as Ralph sprang to the door to take away the prop with which he
had secured it, Hugh and Bud pushed into the interior of the cabin.
Ralph stared at them but seemed decidedly pleased, for he instantly
thrust out his hand in friendly greeting.
"Well, well, who'd think you would drop in on me as if you came from
the skies?" he was saying as he worked Hugh's arm like a milkman's
pump handle. "You see, I've been coming out here for several years
every Thanksgiving afternoon to set my first traps of the season; and
while